


Seeming is But a Garment

by Saucery



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action, Aftermath of a Case, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Auror Harry, Aurors, Bisexual Character, Bisexuality, Brothels, Case Fic, Consent Issues, Disguise, Drama, Earth-Shatteringly Slow Sexual Epiphanies, Explicit Sexual Content, Goblins, HP: EWE, Humor, Identity Porn, Illegal Activities, M/M, Memories, Mission Fic, Mystery, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious, Opposites Attract, Pensieves, Plotty, Polyjuice Potion, Prostitution, Romance, Slow Build, Snape Lives, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:21:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While conducting a raid on an illegal Polyjuice brothel, Head Auror Harry Potter is horrified to discover that Severus Snape is one of its most popular, er, rentals. Is horror all that Harry’s feeling, though?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeming is But a Garment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atra (atrata)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atrata/gifts).



> Written for the [2014 Mini Snarry Games](http://snarry-games.livejournal.com/149660.html), and dedicated to Atra!
> 
> Now, on to the story notes. I’ve changed how Pensieves function. In this universe, Pensieves provide immersive, first-person experiences, so that someone reliving a memory feels as though they are literally _in the body_ of the wizard or witch whose memory it initially was. I’ve also altered the Polyjuice Potion, by making each strand of hair reusable, no matter how many times the potion is brewed.
> 
> Oh, and Snape survived the final battle only to return to Hogwarts as the headmaster. Meanwhile, Harry divorced Ginny Weasley soon after their marriage, and became Head Auror by the age of twenty-eight. That is when this story is set.
> 
> The title is from Kahlil Gibran’s _[The Madman](http://gutenberg.net.au/ebooks05/0500601h.html)_.

* * *

 

It was supposed to be a routine raid. After a series of lucky tip-offs, detective work and occasionally embarrassing forensic magic involving more samples of semen than Harry was entirely comfortable with, Harry and his team of Aurors had, at last, located the Becoming, a secretive brothel hidden away in the twisting nightmare that was Knockturn Alley, much like 12 Grimmauld Place was hidden between two innocuous houses.

Not that anything about Knockturn was innocuous. The brothel was sandwiched between a shop that sold shrunken heads and an apothecary that claimed to provide fresh human blood as a potion ingredient, and therefore had more vampires among its customers than professional potion brewers. That was the type of neighborhood the Becoming was in.

The Becoming was, if the rumors proved true, an exclusive establishment catering to Dark wizards and witches, whose... appetites… were not adequately sated by more ordinary whorehouses. It was said to provide Polyjuiced versions of notable Wizarding personalities—including Harry himself. Which he did his best not to think about.

To make matters worse, the Becoming had a Fidelius on it, which made it damned difficult to trace, and impossible to infiltrate for undercover missions. It was downright bizarre, that someone powerful and knowledgeable enough to cast a Fidelius had chosen to dedicate their considerable talents to running a _brothel_. Wonders never ceased.

It had taken a warrant to use Veritaserum on Algernon Mottlestamp, Dark Arts practitioner and suspected client of the Becoming, to extract the physical address of the brothel. A speck of semen recovered from Mottlestamp’s robes was identified as that of Bertie Bott, and as Bertie Bott was most definitely not the aged Mottlestamp’s lover, Harry had deduced that a Polyjuiced clone of Bott must’ve produced the, um, the requisite bodily fluids.

God. This whole case was traumatizing enough as it was; picturing Mottlestamp rogering Bertie Bott was enough to give Harry an aneurysm. Not for the first time, Harry wished he could Obliviate himself, go home and drink a few gallons of Firewhisky. Not necessarily in that order.

“You, Rawlins.” Harry jerked his thumb at the Auror beside him. “Take the back door.”

Rawlins giggled nervously, and Harry rolled his eyes.

“No pun intended. For Merlin’s sake, get your mind out of the gutter. Dravid, O’Mally and Graves, secure the windows and any exit routes. McGrath, Tanaka and Leary, you’re with me. Wands out, stun only. We’re taking the front door.” 

They split up accordingly and advanced upon the building, quiet as cats, shielded by concealment charms. Harry had shared the address with his colleagues, much as Dumbledore had shared the address of Grimmauld Place with his allies.

A wizard in a hooded cloak approached the Becoming and let himself in, and before the door could swing shut behind him, Harry snuck in with his companions.

He stopped short at the splendor of his surroundings.

Everything was mahogany, glass and gold. The Becoming resembled a five-star hotel, with glittering chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. A massive marble staircase spiraled sinuously upward, carpeted in crimson, and Doric pillars veined with gold stood proudly in the corners. A handful of plush loveseats were scattered across the lobby, occupied by clients sipping wine served by suited House Elves, flipping through what appeared to be menus. Menus with moving photographs on them. Photographs of people Harry vaguely recognized, and—

Was that _Hermione_?

Harry resisted the suddenly overpowering urge to kill someone. Anyone. Particularly that hook-nosed witch ogling Hermione’s innocent, smiling photo like it was pornography.

Mottlestamp hadn’t divulged any information aside from the Fidelius-cloaked location, since the warrant for the Veritaserum had only covered that sole question. So Harry was startled to see that the proprietor of the establishment was unmistakably a richly dressed female goblin, eyes hard as pebbles, watching over the lobby from a high seat behind the gilded reception desk.

The wizard who’d entered with them lowered his hood and smiled at the goblin, who smiled artificially in response. The wizard was glamored, because his features flickered and blurred, further protecting his anonymity. 

“Lovely as ever, Grippa,” he said, and the goblin simpered at him. Harry goggled; he hadn’t seen a goblin attempt to be pleasant, before. “I’m Lorenzo, by the way.”

“The usual, Lorenzo?”

“No need for a menu, dear. Shall I go upstairs, then?”

“Not quite yet. We’ll send the potion and the clothing to room 3, but it’ll take a while for your partner to transfigure the scene, as per your preferences. The Malfoy Manor, yes?”

Harry’s jaw fell open. Someone wanted to sleep with a _Malfoy_?

“How well you know me.” Lorenzo beamed, sliding a velveteen pouch onto the desk; it clinked dully, weighted with coin. “It’s your excellent standard of service that has won my loyalty.”

“You flatter us,” Grippa said, with false modesty, spiriting the pouch away into an unseen pocket. “Why don’t you take a seat while we get things ready for you? An Elf will be down to fetch you.”

Lorenzo obediently did as he was told.

Enough was enough. All the Aurors would be at their stations, by now; they had to take action. 

Harry cast a silencing charm to prevent any screaming from making it “upstairs,” where, presumably, the prostitution actually happened. They had to arrest the perpetrators in the act, as it were, and that could only be done if the perpetrators upstairs were undisturbed by the chaos unfurling below.

“On the count of three, immobilize everyone,” Harry whispered to his team. “Three, two, one,” he said, and the next five minutes were a barrage of flashing spells and loud thuds as humans and Elves fell to the carpets, unmoving. Those that were immobilized later did, indeed, scream, but couldn’t escape or retaliate before being incapacitated. Most of Harry’s squad were Hit-Wizards, after all, trained for rapid-fire casting in just such situations.

They dropped their concealment charms and moved among the bodies, divesting them of their wands and any assorted weapons. That the vast majority of clients were wearing glamors to hide their true faces made perfect sense; they wouldn’t want their social peers noticing them, here. “Lorenzo” must’ve been a pseudonym.

Harry had stunned Grippa before she could sound an alarm, and she lay slumped on the desk, glaring at him.

“I’ll be back to interrogate you.” Harry grinned at her. “Get some rest, in the meanwhile!”

So saying, he bounded up the stairs, Tanaka and Leary following him, and McGrath staying behind on the ground floor, to immobilize any patrons that walked in the door.

The upper level was just as hotel-like, and had four brass-numbered rooms, arrayed on either side of the chandelier-lit corridor. A quick surveillance charm revealed that three of them were taken, so Harry wordlessly signaled that Tanaka and Leary should take rooms 1 and 2, while Harry himself would take room 4.

A simple Alohomora unlocked the door, because why would extra security be required on a Fidelius-protected property?

Wand aloft, Harry edged into the bedroom—and it _was_ a bedroom, thank god, not the Hogwarts kitchen, or something. There was a fire blazing in the giant fireplace, and a wingback chair set before it, in which a black-haired, black-robed man sat, legs spread. A young, pale witch kneeled between them, naked but for a Slytherin tie around her neck, ostensibly about to suck the man off.

Harry immobilized them on instinct, only to realize that—that the man was—

The man was Severus Snape.

Harry stumbled back, as if struck.

No. No way. _Snape_ frequented the Becoming? It was—it was ludicrous, Snape would never—despite his utilitarian attitude, the man was an obsessive romantic—he’d been in love with Harry’s mum for _thirty years_ —

“Excuse me,” Harry said, levitating a sheet from the nearby bed to drape it over the woman’s body. His heart pounded sickeningly as he rounded the chair to see who she was, and she wasn’t—well, of course she wasn’t, her hair was brown, not red, and the bile crawling up Harry’s throat subsided, somewhat. So Snape hadn’t been keeping a lock of Lily’s hair for nefarious purposes.

Who _was_ the witch, though? Harry didn’t recognize her at all, and surely her features should strike him as being familiar, if she was famous enough to be on the goddamned menu.

Strangely angry, Harry paced back and forth, his eyes flicking repeatedly to Snape, as he imagined unfreezing the bastard and demanding what the hell Snape was doing here with a Polyjuiced woman and a student’s tie. Snape was a teacher; he should be looking after his students, not using them for—for enacting depraved fantasies in some brothel.

Also, Snape wasn’t allowed to be a sexual creature. It was… it was unnatural, although not nearly as unnatural as fucking someone wearing a borrowed face. This was so messed up. And Harry had always known Snape was messed up, but he hadn’t understood how _much_.

Harry was shocked by how disappointed he was, disappointed and oddly hurt, because he’d genuinely believed Snape was better than this, and it was—it was a letdown of epic proportions. To say the least. It felt like a betrayal.

“Oi,” he said, glowering at Snape. “I’ll deal with you soon, but I’m going to talk to her, first.”

Harry flicked his wand at the woman to release her—both from the immobilization and from her own glamor—and immediately, she let out a shriek, gathering the sheet tighter around her as she scrambled backward. It turned out that, without the glamor, she bore a striking resemblance to Astoria Greengrass; they might even be relatives.

“Relax,” Harry said, placatingly. “I won’t hurt—”

“Oh, Merlin,” she gibbered. “You’re Harry Potter. You’re _Harry Potter_. And you’re going to arrest me for—I just had a crush on him at school, I swear, I’m not—please don’t tell my family,” she said, and as Harry gawked at her, she burst into tears.

Slowly, the truth came together in Harry’s mind. Harry reeled at the magnitude of his own stupidity, so overcome with guilt and embarrassment that he was rendered briefly speechless. Snape hadn’t betrayed Harry’s trust; it was Harry who’d betrayed Snape’s. The person famous enough to be on the menu was Snape, but Harry had automatically assumed—

He’d kick himself about it afterwards; at this very instant, he had a brothel to raid.

Sighing, he pushed his spectacles up his nose. “You’re the client,” he said, flatly.

“Y-yes?” The woman sniffled, and Harry looked at her helplessly. He didn’t have the knack for comforting civilians that Ron did. Not that this civilian deserved to be comforted.

“What’s your name?”

“Tabitha Baglsey,” she mumbled. “But I’m not… I didn’t provide the hair for… I didn’t supply the Polyjuice, or brew it, so I’m not—I’ll be released on bail, won’t I?”

“To prove you haven’t brewed the potion, we’ll have to cast _Priori Incantatem_ on your wand, and if we turn up any illegal Dark spells in the process, well… We’ll have to put you on trial for those.” This was why Harry had been so obsessed with the brothel case; it had promised to turn up a veritable treasure-trove of Dark wizards.

But Tabitha sagged in relief. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, well, I’m not a Dark—I don’t do that stuff.”

“Stuff?” Harry said, lips twitching despite himself.

“I just… I heard about the Becoming from a friend of mine, and I… I had to try it out. Just once. My parents are marrying me off to a right bastard, and I—” She quivered, the very picture of vulnerability. “This was my last night of f-freedom.”

Harry blinked. “Isn’t Snape a right bastard, too?”

“He’s _brilliant_ ,” Tabitha said, fiercely, her vulnerability falling away, and Harry was forcefully reminded that, yeah, she was a Slytherin. As if realizing that her cover had slipped, she curled up on herself, knuckles whitening on her sheet. “He gave me advice, when I got into trouble in seventh year. He’s why I didn’t go Dark.”

Harry’s conscience was beginning to feel like a pin-cushion stuck with a million, tiny, Snape-shaped pins. God, he’d cocked this up, hadn’t he? Figuratively speaking. Snape would be laughing at him for his idiocy. Not that Snape ever laughed, except possibly on the inside.

“I’m going to immobilize you again,” Harry said, “because I’ve got to comb through this place, and I can’t have you running about, trying to get away.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Tabitha said, her mouth wobbling.

“Right,” Harry said, dubiously.

He permitted her to get into a more comfortable position, cross-legged on the luxurious carpet, before immobilizing her and leaving the room. He didn’t so much as glance at its other occupant, because his brain might just _stop_ if he did that.

When outside, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

Snape was the victim, here. Snape was the one who’d been Polyjuiced and was having all manner of indecent things done to his lookalike by former students and, potentially, former Death Eaters. Harry doubted they would all be as worshipful of Snape as Tabitha was; there must be some that would take out their anger on him, that must be _hurting_ him, because Snape had abandoned them.

Great. Now he was feeling protective of Snape. The complete reversal of his emotional state was so dizzyingly fast that it almost gave him whiplash.

“Sir?”

He looked up to see Tanaka peering at him in concern.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Harry said, as Leary joined them. “You two done with your rooms?”

“It took me ages,” Leary said, dusting her robes. “The room had been transformed into a… a dungeon of some sort—”

“A very specific sort,” Tanaka muttered.

“And _Draco Malfoy_ was in it. Or Malfoy’s lookalike, I guess. Beaten black and blue, the poor lad. The client saw me and shot a hex at me before I could disarm him, and then we had ourselves a little duel.”

“Which you obviously won,” Tanaka said, impatiently. “Shall we move on?”

“You’re such a spoilsport.”

“I’m efficient, is what I am.”

“You’re like kids,” Harry said, in exasperation. “Get the rest of the team to come in and arrest everyone, and take them back to headquarters for questioning. O’Mally can take care of the healing charms on… on Malfoy. As for me, I’m going to have a chat with the proprietress.”

 

* * *

 

As it turned out, Grippa was uncooperative in the extreme.

“You must have client lists,” Harry said. “You do realize you’re legally required to give them to me?”

“I keep no client lists,” Grippa said, “save in my head.”

“Write them down, then.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I seem to have forgotten them.” 

Bloody hell.

“In any case, you’re human. I don’t have to cooperate with you.”

Bloody. Hell.

Grippa’s canny eyes glinted meanly. “How naive do you think I am, child? I’ve been alive for centuries. I know my rights. You have to extradite me to the goblin justice system; you can’t detain me for more than a single night.”

“That doesn’t mean you can actively block an investigation.”

“I’m not blocking you.” Grippa gestured toward the curtained office behind the reception desk. “Have a look through our files. Seize whatever you find. Just don’t ask me who our clients are. As I said, I’ve forgotten.”

It was a pity that Veritaserum wasn’t effective on goblin physiology. Even if it was, Harry wouldn’t be able to get a warrant for it within a night, before he had to surrender Grippa to her fellow goblins.

Having had a look at Grippa’s office, he knew that the “files” were a sham; there was no data of worth in them, only accounting done in Gobbledegook. Dravid, who was a qualified interpreter of Gobbledegook, had said that there were no names mentioned anywhere. While the figures themselves _could_ represent some form of cryptographic cipher in addition to monetary sums, the chances of that were low, since Grippa was evidently so committed to client confidentiality.

The goblin justice system was notorious for releasing any criminals who committed no crimes against goblinkind, which meant Grippa might be somewhere else, setting up a new brothel, within the week. She could probably cast a stronger Fidelius Charm and re-invite her current clientele, and continue as if she hadn’t just been raided.

Damn it.

Months of work, down the drain. They’d have to start over, and who knew if they’d strike it lucky, this time? Idiots like Mottlestamp would be infinitely more careful, and certainly wouldn’t be walking around with semen on their robes. Grippa’s next den of iniquity might escape detection for _years_.

“Sir,” said Rawlins, calling out from the storage closet adjacent to the office—a closet they may not have noticed had Harry not sensed that it was warded. “I’ve finally got it open. You’ve got to see this.”

Grippa stiffened.

Huh. Interesting.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Harry said, with all the mock sincerity he could muster, and stood. He waved Tanaka over to arrest Grippa and take her to the Ministry, with the remaining prisoners.

And then, he went to check out what had Grippa so worried.

 

* * *

 

Pensieves. Shelf upon shelf of Pensieves.

“What are all these for?” Rawlins wondered, gaping at them.

“It’s the menu,” Harry said, recalling glimpsing a rather peculiar phrase in the menu with Hermione’s photo in it. “Get me one,” he commanded, and Rawlins darted out to fetch it. When he returned, Harry paged through it, disregarding the photos, because they were too distracting.

For every entry, there were a range of options—a becoming, a becoming _and_ a setting, and, lastly, a remembering. The remembering was the cheapest, at half the price of a becoming, and quarter the price of a becoming and a setting.

When Lorenzo had mentioned Malfoy Manor, he must’ve been referring to the “setting.” Given the sheer quantity of Pensieves, what was meant by a “remembering” was self-evident, too. Each Pensieve had a number accorded to it, carved into the smooth, stony rim. That number must match a number on the menu. That was the only viable explanation.

“They recorded themselves.” Harry grabbed the nearest Pensieve, numbered 18, and hoisted it onto the table in the middle of the storage room. According to the menu, item 18 was… Luna Lovegood.

Harry’s skin crawled, unwilling to discover what these vile perverts had subjected her to, but he had to focus. That focus caused a memory to float to the surface of the Pensieve, glowing gently, and Harry dipped his wand into it.

Rawlins was looking on anxiously, so Harry grimaced at him and said, “See you on the other side.”

And in he went.

He was out within moments.

He couldn’t—he couldn’t _believe_ —

Whoever the client had been must’ve been very tall, far taller than Luna, and had used that height difference to drag Luna to the bed by the hair, where he or she had proceeded to bind Luna with—with—

No. Not thinking about it.

“So?” Rawlins asked him. “Did you get a name?”

“No.” Harry scowled. “There were bits of the memory that were snipped out; it was like a tape jumping, or a CD skipping.”

“A what?” Rawlins, a pure-blood, was ignorant of Muggle devices.

“Never mind.” Still, this was better than nothing _._ They’d have to comb through each Pensieve manually, through each memory, gleaning details such as the height of the wizard in the memory Harry had just seen. It would be slow going, but there was the potential of piecing together enough clues to capture the culprits. Maybe. “Have these Pensieves sent to HQ.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harry checked the menu; there were twenty “items” on it, starting with Harry Potter. The menu declared that the list was ordered by popularity. To Harry’s surprise, Snape was second in the list, above Draco Malfoy, who was third, and Hermione, who was fourth.

People paid to have sex with Snape? Really? Sure, Harry had sort of seen it, with Tabitha (fortunately, no naughty bits of Snape had been on display), but he couldn’t quite comprehend it.

The prices dropped as the list went on, but the cost of purchasing a remembering consistently stayed the lowest, arguably because less labor went into simply giving a client a memory to relive; there would be no brewing or transfiguration involved, and no prostitute that would be engaged. That, and living a memory wouldn’t be anywhere near as satisfying as doing the deed, oneself, but it may be the most financially feasible option for some.

There were also clever promotions, promising a free remembering for newcomers, to tempt them into purchasing a becoming, and a free remembering of any session that a client had previously purchased a becoming for. Essentially, anyone who used a becoming had to offer up their memories, which were altered to erase any names or easily recognizable features. After that, however, they wouldn’t have to pay to access their own memories from the Pensieves.

All very businesslike. If Harry could forget that this was about sex, the menu truly would look like it belonged in a fancy restaurant.

There were thirty Aurors altogether, juniors and veterans combined. Harry could assign twenty of them to deal with the Pensieves, with one Pensieve per Auror. Insofar as Harry was able, he’d match the Pensieve to the victim, although not all the individuals on the menu had ended up as Aurors.

At least Harry could ensure that Hermione got the Pensieve with memories of her in it, and that Ron, Dean, Seamus, Lavender and Parvati got theirs. Those Pensieves that couldn’t be matched within the Auror department would just have to be given to the most discreet Aurors to deal with, under strict instructions not to share those memories with anybody else.

There was something… discomfiting… about the idea of giving the Pensieve with Snape’s number on it to someone else, so Harry decided to go through it himself.

It was the only decent thing to do. Especially after Harry had—he winced—blamed Snape by default.

 

* * *

 

Going through his own Pensieve was tedious; Harry had expected to find it traumatizing, but he was generally a calm, distant observer. Perhaps it was because of how obvious it was that the prostitute _wasn’t_ him; it might’ve been a convincing pretense for clients who weren’t closely acquainted with Harry, but Harry could tell that those mannerisms weren’t his, that he didn’t moan _that_ way, that his face wasn’t capable of such expressions of frank debauchery. Instead, Harry found himself reflecting bitterly that he’d never had sex that good, that he’d never had the opportunity to be debauched so thoroughly that he lost his Harry-ness and became a nameless creature of desperate lust.

There was the occasional disturbing episode of violence that made Harry ill, but as permanently harming the prostitutes was out of the question, they weren’t subjected to trials more painful than what Harry had already been through. None of the prostitutes had Cruciatus cast upon them, for example; the clients hiring “Harry” couldn’t risk having their wands being traced for Unforgivables. Harry was glad that he’d summoned Mediwitches and Mediwizards from St. Mungo’s to tend to those prostitutes who’d suffered injuries. 

Finally, after days of looking through all the memories in his Pensieve, he turned, with trepidation, to Snape’s.

He’d… brought Snape’s Pensieve home, for some reason. He was uncomfortable with the prospect of sitting in his office, watching Snape get—things—done to him, and as Head Auror, Harry was the only Ministry employee aside from the Minister who could remove things from the evidence locker without being questioned.

Harry fetched himself a tumbler of Firewhisky and sipped it while lounging on his sofa. When he was done, he put it aside on the coffee table and reached for the Pensieve he’d set down on it earlier. He didn’t think he could be blamed for needing a bit of Dutch courage before descending into the ninth circle of hell.

As he entered the Pensieve, the drawing room of his humble flat began to fade away, like the color from an old painting. When it finished swirling and shifting, Harry found himself in a classroom—and not just any classroom, but Potions. It was empty except for himself and Snape, who was at his desk, furiously marking essays, scratching red line after red line over the text.

“Well?” Snape snapped, and Harry jumped—or rather, whoever Harry was in jumped. “Are you going to hover there uselessly for the rest of eternity?”

This… This wasn’t too shoddy an approximation of Snape. Which made things more intimidating. Harry’s vessel wrung its hands apprehensively—Harry could feel them, clammy and sweaty—and shuffled forward on hesitant feet.

Snape didn’t have any patience with hesitation, so he looked up, and Harry’s breath caught at the sight of those beetle-black eyes, sharp as ever.

“You’re failing, ———,” Snape said, the memory skipping over the name. The skip was jarring, but not overly so, because Snape laid his quill down and stroked his fingers along it, slowly, in a way that Harry abruptly realized was _exactly how Snape used to do it_.

So the prostitute was Snape’s ex-student.

“Are you here to beg me for a pass, again?” Snape sneered.

“My… my father can’t find out that I’m failing,” faux-Harry said, meekly. “Please. I’ll do anything.”

“Anything, you say?”

Oh, thank heavens; that didn’t sound like Snape. Snape wouldn’t sound that salacious and—and creepy, would he? Inexplicably relieved, Harry went along with his counterpart in the Pensieve, through the rather clichéd negotiations that sounded like the halting script of a B-grade porn film, to the point where the student was kneeling just like Tabitha had done. Who would’ve thought that so many people apparently wanted to suck Snape’s cock?

Just when it seemed that Harry might be able to coast through this just as he’d coasted through his own Pensieve, Snape’s fist wound in his hair, tight enough to sting.

And abruptly, Harry was _there_ , right there, with the grimy floor he knelt on cool through his robes, and Snape’s grip so cruel that it made him gasp.

“Let’s see how deep you can take it before you choke,” Snape said, in that silky, threatening voice of his. “If you back away, even once, I’ll fail you. Understand?”

Harry’s heart pounded. He saw a pair of slender hands parting Snape’s robes, and those hands were shaking, like Harry himself was. It took long, burning minutes to undo the buttons of Snape’s trousers, minutes in which the air scorched Harry’s lungs as if he were inhaling fire. He felt increasingly feverish, warm inside and out, and he couldn’t tell if this was what the wizard in the memory was feeling, or if it was all him.

Oh, god. Snape’s cock, when it was freed, was huge, filling his palm, hot as a brand. It was obscenely heavy, damp at the tip, and there was—there was this scent, musky and stifling, surrounding Harry like another kind of touch, insidious and inescapable.

A quiet horror stole over him as he realized that he was hard. He was _hard_ , and—

He physically lurched backwards, rocking the Pensieve, which mercifully didn’t spill. The walls of the classroom melted away in Harry’s vision, replaced by the plain brickwork of Harry’s flat. He was panting like he’d been running, and his pulse roared in his ears.

Why hadn’t he been able to distance himself? A Pensieve couldn’t _compel_ anyone to experience the events stored in it; the intensity of that engagement was dictated entirely by the wizard’s will. And yet, Harry’s will seemed to have fled him, and now, he was—

He wasn’t doing anything, that’s what. It wasn’t like he was a teenager with no self-control, wanking uncontrollably whenever he got an erection. He wasn’t going to—he wouldn’t—

“Buggering, fucking—” Harry staggered to the liquor cabinet, poured himself several more glasses of Firewhisky, and tried not to think about the fact that he was as bad as the patrons of the Becoming, who’d violated Snape’s autonomy, Snape’s very personhood. What Harry had presumed would be an objective, dispassionate, almost academic exercise in intelligence-gathering had somehow turned into… whatever that had been. It definitely hadn’t been objective or dispassionate, and if it had been academic, then Harry would’ve failed just as thoroughly as that confounded student.

It had to be a fluke. Harry hadn’t dated since divorcing Ginny, three years ago, and intermittent, lackluster one-night stands clearly weren’t… sufficient. That’s all it was. It wasn’t like Harry was attracted to _Snape_.

Was he?

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Harry meets the real Snape! (And promptly freaks out.)

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Want updates and sneak previews? Follow me on [Tumblr](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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